


Give the Lie

by tooth_and_claw



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooth_and_claw/pseuds/tooth_and_claw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A surprise attack by unnamed enemies. A rescue mission for their Administration. The truth of their war. The Mercenaries are about to learn a lot of things they never cared to know, all in the span of one terrible night. The answers- and all the questions those answer beg- will drive them from their familiar battlegrounds to landscapes they never imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Light at Morning

Red light and silence. One timeless moment he was in dream (oil, blood, sand, walking somewhere very far away), and then Engineer was awake, eyes open, breath held. Something was wrong. Danger. Benefit of living in a warzone: you wake up mighty quick when you need to. He felt the cold of his pistol under the pillow, and took stock.

Over his doorway was a bulb protected by a metal cage, and it pulsed crimson. It was the only light in the room, his window obscured by makeshift shades, so every time the red glow faded to nothing he was left with darkness, silence, an eerie green retina burn, and nothing else. Engineer didn’t ever remember seeing that light before, and he’d sure as shit never seen it turn on. A midnight attack? BLU? No. God damn it was going to take some adjustment … not BLU. Then robots.

But he heard nothing. The Announcer was silent. There was just the light, dimming, glowing.

Engineer eased himself into a sitting position. Maybe it was a malfunction, but the gooseflesh on his arms said different. A man lived and died by his intuition, and his said that hellfire and brimstone were coming on. Everything *felt* wrong. Like a storm’d brewed up over night and was creeping over the hills, pocked full of funnel clouds. 

“Aw hell.” He whispered, and slid out of bed, white undershirt and shorts complimented only by the weapon in his hand, and the weapon that *was* his hand. His joints were stiff with cold. This house was so quickly constructed after that spaceship destroyed his last one, guess he didn’t count on winter or it’s effect on his knees. he was getting too old for this. Maybe it was time to diagram up some new legs. Robots, attacking a man in his own home! Grey Mann’d gone too far this time.

It was a good thing he knew his dorm by heart. Picking through this mess was difficult enough in the day; by this light, anyone who didn’t know the lay of every stray bolt and wire was likely to end up face down. He paused outside the door to listen for anything at all: the rustlin’ of his teammates rousing themselves from their own beds, or the clank of machine parts.

Wait. Why the hell would his team be in his house? 

He wasn’t *in* his house, he was in his dorm. In the base.

Which base? But … he’d gone home last night, hadn’t he? Peeled out bloody but happy, victorious, smiling through the smell of ozone and sitting high next to a pile of money. 

He didn’t *have* a dorm. He had a house he built near enough but definitely not on RED land. His own homestead. Where he lived, alone, and the guys had never come to visit, ‘cept for Pyro who came every Thursday night, when they had a campfire. He could see it now, nearly smell it, strumming on the guitar while the firebug played with the blaze, beers in the cooler, Demo yarning like he did about Nessie or Bigfoot or trying to get them to sniff out Area 51, Scout kicking back those sugar bomb sodas, Heavy and Soldier, playing cards, Sniper sometimes—

And then they’d go back to their rooms, belly full of drink and friends, fuel for the fight tomorrow. The barracks were close enough to the battleground that all it took the next day was an hour for breakfast, a quick shower, and all your gear was right there.

A leisurely breakfast after watching dawn spill over his very own patch of gravel, coffee in a tin pot on the woodstove, driving his pick-up down the dusty roads until Teufort rose up outta the desert like a mirage.

Home.

Home.

His vision was swimming.

Problem solving brain kicked in. Gas, or he’d been drugged. Would not have been the first time Medic had slipped a little something extra into their food, but they’d tanned his hide but good for that whole LSD experiment, so Engineer doubted he’d be curious enough to try again. On his workbench was the mask he used around particularly malodorous chemicals and he grabbed it just in case. 

Engineer opened his door and came a hair’s breadth from blowing Spy’s balaclava’d brains all over the hall. “Fils de pute!” Spy flinched, throwing his hands in front of his face. “Lower your arm, laborer!”

 ”Spah.” He complied, though wary. “Don’t suppose you know what’s going—“

“Non.” The man fair spat the answer. Engineer frowned, now noticing that Spy was keeping his back to the wall best he could. He was all nerves and no knowledge, same as Engineer. And if Spy didn’t know? It was an official emergency. Boy had his fingers in all sorts of informational pies, and knew their missions a week before the rest of them— Hell, Engineer wouldn’t have been surprised if he knew the missions before they’d been thought up. This weirdness had him by surprise and Frenchie wasn’t happy about it. Spy’s eyes flickered to the mask Engie was gripping to his side, and raised a brow. “A present for Pyro?”

“You feelin’ a little funny?” 

“I am feeling ill-rested and more than a little irritated, but not, eh, funny.” His raised brow crinkled. “You are?”

Engineer wasn’t stupid enough to think that was concern in Spy’s agitated question, not for him, anyway. “A mite unnerved. Nothing from the Announcer, right?”

“Not a thing.” 

“Then we better rustle up the others and find out what the hell’s going on, huh?” So much confidence in his voice. Spy wouldn’t be fooled but maybe Engie could pump himself up. The confusion over his supposed location was fading a little, and Engie decided there not to give it another thought until this crisis was over, Probably was vestige of a dream deciding to hunker down in his subconscious  or a little too much whiskey the night before.

Almost simultaneously, another of the doors opened: Medic, hair ruffled, adjusting his cuffs and wiping sleep from his eyes. In the fluctuating red lights, Engie and Spy must have made a startling pair because he jumped and clutched his chest. “Mein gott!”

“Bonjour,” Spy said, dry as a creek bed come summer. “Welcome to our emergency war meeting.”

“Vhat is this? Vhat is going on?” Medic adjusted his glasses. There was a small piece of paper stuck to the side of his face, and Engineer guessed he’d fallen asleep over his notes, again. Medic noticed it at the same time and snatched it away, mock coughing.

“We don’t rightly know, Doc. But we were thinking it was about time to get everyone up and find out.”

They all heard it. Even if the base wasn’t so silent, and their senses weren’t honed by the creepy awakening, they would have recognized it. It was a sound that ran in their blood: a gunshot. Sharp, short. Singular. And not from here.

“Blu.” Engineer stated. “What in Sam Hill?”

“Enough standing around.” In the moments Engineer had been distracted, Spy’s fancy silver gun had appeared in his hand. Medic was frozen, eyes narrowed, head cocked. They all looked like rabbits smelling the fox. Spy lowered the Ambassador marginally, but he did not put her away. “I am going down to the control room to contact the Announcer and try to sort this mess out. You two rouse the sleeping children.”

Engie would have argued. He hated Spy ordering them around, like he had any goddamned idea what real battlefield tactics were like, but it was the right thing to do in this case. His cozy relationship with the higher ups was going to give him the better chance of hailing RED headquarters, who were notoriously hard to reach these days— what with the death of their boss and all. Spy melted down the hall, the lights illuminating him further gone with every pulse, until he was nothing at all.

And him still standing here like a dumb sow waiting for slaughter. Engineer let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and started after Spy, but Medic stopped him. “Sniper is in his disgusting van. Dummkopf. I varned him about the cold.” He sneered, but clearly it wasn’t the cold he was worried about. Engineer nodded, and Medic turned his attention away before he was grabbed by the shoulder, not unkindly.

“Doc?”

Clearly annoyed, Medic adjusted his glasses again. “Vhat now?”

“You didn’t happen to get a little … pharmacology happy, didja? Not curious bout some new concoction, thought you’d give it a whirl?” He couldn’t help it if the Gunslinger tightened a little on the good doctor’s shoulder. 

Medic’s tilted his chin, and it just so happened that the red light caught on his glasses so that they flashed and obscured his eyes. But Engineer heard the nervous titter and felt the twitching muscles. “Nein, nein mein freund! Vhy?”

Engineer released him, clearing his throat. “Just covering all bases. Alright. See you soon, doc.”  
  
Medic wasted no time to pounding on the doors, barking in German, and Engineer didn’t wait once he heard scout starting to whine. The thought of venturing out alone into the snowy maze of Barnblitz wasn’t exactly appealing, but damned if he was going to leave a man to whatever fate was out there. Dammit Campground, why’d you have to go hide in your durned van again? He always ran off after a battle lost, the varmint. Nursing his pride in solitude while the rest of them found some solace in a good old drunken kvetchin’.

In the next hall, the lights weren’t going at all, and Engineer had to walk carefully, his heart hammering in his ears. They’d been through a lot of bloodshed, explosions, even hauntings, so it weren’t noise that frightened him. It was this stillness and silence. Very quickly he was out of the range of anyone’s voices, and then at the exit—where he realized he wasn’t wearing nothin’ but his pajamas. His still-damp snow boots were little comfort.

Cursing Sniper’s professional name, he darted out into the night.

 ***

Herding cats would have been an easier job. Herding pigeons certainly was and they moved in all spatial dimensions. “Nein! I do not know! Heavy, stop asking so many questions and keep — Scout— SCOUT YOU STAY RIGHT THERE. Ach, Soldier! Ve are not enemies! Put zat down right now, or so help me, I vill make sure zat ‘boot up your ass’ of vich you are alvays speaking is no metaphorical flight of fancy!”

“I don’t know what medical flights you want to take me on, Fritz, but I am not leaving American soil! These boots are staying right here!”

So much for being quiet. The only one Medic *wasn’t* worried about was Demo and that was because he was slumped against the wall with his head locked between knees, staring at a seedy pitch of vomit everyone else was trying very hard to avoid. Alright, let’s see, Archimedes, check— his friend gave him an affectionate nip on the finger as he stroked the bird’s back. Soldier, yes, of course, check. Demo check, Scout check, Heavy check, Engineer was out fetching Sniper, Spy was accounted for, and himself, of course. Leaving only …

“Doktor, where is little Pyro?”

Medic frowned, soothing himself by running a finger along the smooth feathers of Archimedes’ wing. “I do not know. I knocked.”

“HAS ANYONE SEEN LITTLE PYRO?”

“Heavy, hsst! Shh!” Medic grabbed him by the collar. “If there are enemies nearby, do you want them bearing down us on vhen ve are still in our Leiderhosen?”

Heavy looked down, as if only now aware of his Skull and Crossbones jammies, but before he could say anything Scout interrupted, leaning on Heavy’s massive shoulder. “Yo, Doc, you check the local freakshow? I hear they need someone to scare the kiddies.”

“Zat is not helpful, sheißchen.” Medic ground his teeth and felt all the relaxation of sleep quickly leaving him. A headache was developing under his left temple, a steady pulse in time with the lights, and that was the rhythm to which he knocked again on Pyro’s door. “Pyro, vake up! Ve need you out here. Raus, raus!”

Hard to hear over the din of Scout and Soldier starting to argue. Medic pressed his ear against the door.  No one had ever been in Pyro’s room, even Scout, who had rifled through all of their belongings to steal nudie mags and cigarettes and whatever else the little Kleptomaniac could get his hands on. Through the cheap wood, he thought he heard a low moaning, though perhaps this was only an imagined soundtrack for his daydreams of murdering his stupid, loud teammates. Heavy leaned in over Medic and the bulk of the man’s body helped shield him from the cacophony.   Medic stilled his breathing and waited.

Yes, there it was again. A muffled keening.

Praying that he wasn’t about to become voyeur to the most disturbing of masturbation scenes, Medic nodded to Heavy and the door. Bless his partner in violence— without words, Heavy knew just what to do. He stepped back while Medic jumped to the left, and with one stocky leg, he kicked through the door.

The crack of Pyro’s door coming to pieces shocked Scout and Soldier into silence. Absent the din, Medic heard whimpering from a dark corner, behind the spartan metal frame of the bed. Gooseflesh tickled his forearms; always would he thrill to hear someone weep. But now wasn’t the time for *that*. Wrinkling his nose against an unholy miasma of gasoline, unwashed body, and an unnamable chemical tang, Medic entered the shadows. Heavy came behind, dimming even the ambient light.  

The bed frame had been pushed away from the wall, and in the space between the metal and the wooden slats, Pyro was curled up in as tight a ball as the human body could manage. Medic recognized him by his gas mask, barely visible through the gloved hands curled around it. His asbestos suit was replaced by a fleecy onesie decorated with smiling rubber duckies. The effect was ghastly. “Pyro? Vhat is this? Get up, man, zis is not ze time for crying like a little Fraulein.” 

Heavy elbowed him. Medic recovered from the staggering force and glared, though he doubted Heavy could see it. The irony of Mr. “Cry Some More!” giving him trouble over his bedside manner was not lost. “Pyro, what is wrong?” Heavy leaned over the bed. The metal groaned, a disquieting sound under the circumstances, and the huddled Pyro shivered away. “Do not be afraid. It is only Heavy.”

“Yo, what’s wrong with Mumbles?”

Medic could see Scout’s head outlined in the door frame..Nosy little brat. Heavy ignored his question and pat Pyro on the shoulder, cooing in Russian. It seemed to soothe the patient some. Medic came around the bed to get a better look, and though Pyro flinched, under Heavy’s hand he did not jerk away when Medic knelt down. “Are you injured?” Hard to see in the light, but Medic thought Pyro shook his head. “Are you sick?”

A nod. 

“You want some Pepto-Bismol, pal? ‘S what my ma gives me when I ain’t feeling so hot.” Scout was now looming over Medic. Pyro shook his head again and said something into his hands, which didn’t help with audibility. Medic shoved Scout back, ignoring his protests, and leaned in closer.

“Speak up, mein friend. I cannot understand you.”

Pyro lifted his masked face, the incongruous mix of featureless apparatus and cheery ducklings bordering on obscene. “Mm hudda mm mmphmm.”

Medic looked to Heavy for translation but he shrugged, just as helpless. “Vhat?”

“Ee said ee’s havin’ a nightmare.”

Slurred words from the entryway. Demo was swaying, but with the help of soldier and the splinters of the door he managed upright. Clearly still drunk— no one understood Pyro better than Demo when he was betrunken.

“A nightmare? Oh, come on!”

This time, Medic didn’t need to threaten Scout— Heavy did it for him. He yanked Scout close by the collar of tee shirt and growled into the boy’s face. “Do not make fun of little Pyro, baby Scout, or I will make sure *you* have nightmare.”

“Yeah? You want to try, fat stuff?”

“Cut it out, fer crissakes! Can’t you see the lad’s in need of real help, not a buggerin’ by the lot of ye? Move!” And Demo stumbled out of Soldier’s grip, pushing past his fighting teammates and careening around the bed. His breath almost bowled Medic over as Demo slumped against him, but if he was going to get anything out of Pyro, a translator was necessary. Lip curled, Medic let Demo do his magic. “Ey there, laddie. Come on now. Look up. There’s a good boy. Alright, now. Shh. You’re not having a nightmare no more. You’re awake. It’s just some fookin’ lights, nothing ta be frightened of.”

“Mmph ma hummd ffmma dum!”

Demo squinted. “He says that he’s, eh, hallucinatin’.”

“Hallucinations?” Medic blinked. “Vhat are you seeing?”

Pyro put his head into crossed arms again, and they both had to lean in closely to hear a thing. “Mmph. Mmffi. M phhmm hmm.”

“Blood. Fire. It looks like hell.” Demo rubbed his good eye. “He’s scared as a gel with her skirts up, Doc.”

“Right. Vell, I cannot do anything here. Ve need to find out vhat else is going on. Can you convince him to move so ve can get going?” Blood and fire? In what world did those constitute a nightmare, for Pyro of all people? Certainly, not a one of them had issues with blood, and maybe some of them took a little more pleasure in it’s spilling than most. Maybe some of them even spent a little personal time alone after a particularly gruesome fight. Everyone had their proclivities. Medic understood. He thought Pyro was one of the most … excitable about such things. Maybe not in *that* way, but the whole team had shared their grudging respect— bordering on fear— for the joy in Pyro’s hooting and laughing watching an enemy burn. Screaming.

Heavy and Demo coaxed Pyro out. Scout started to laugh when he saw the pajamas but stopped of his own accord when he saw how stricken Pyro seemed, how bent and cowering. Medic couldn’t help thinking of Humiliation: when Scout shivered and sucked his thumb, Pyro stood impatient. To see him bowed under the weight of fright killed Scout’s amusement, if not his questions. He followed them out. Medic lingered in the door a moment, considering, forgetting Soldier was still there until he threw an arm in front of the doctor and brought them helmet to glasses. “I know what this is, Fritz. I’ve seen it before.”

“Really, now? Care to enlighten me, herr Soldier?”

Soldier looked round the hallway, searching for any eavesdroppers tiny enough to remain unnoticed in the five foot space, then brought his voice down low. “Shellshock. Fells the best of men.” With that he stood and jogged after the others.

Shellshock.

Hmm.

 *****

Barnblitz was a confusing mess at the best of times. Far over a tangle of wooden lean-tos, structures of dubious purpose, and locked gates was Blu’s base. He could imagine cold metal and glowing eyes working their way steadily toward RED, their bolted weapons already slicked with mercenary blood. Engineer paused despite the icy wind already freezing his nervous sweat, and listened for clanking. It wasn’t like the mechanical nightmares were quiet, but he heard nothing. Nothing at all.

Maybe it weren’t robots.

And if it weren’t robots … he wandered toward the one gate that lead outside the complex, where Snper’s van was parked. Making a racket wasn’t the smartest choice so he didn’t pound on the Camper door, only reached up to lightly tap it when it swung open of it’s own accord. Engineer jumped so far he must have made Scout proud.

“Bloody hell, hardhat!” Sniper clutched at his chest, pulling the door open the rest of the way. He was whispering. “Nearly scared my pants off.”

“You aint’ wearing pants.” Engineer retorted, glancing around to make sure no one had snuck up on them in that moment of surprise. Sniper snorted, but Engineer saw him scanning the landscape as well. 

“And you ain’t wearing nothing but. C’mon, mate. You’re shaking in your pointers. Warm up.” He moved aside so Engineer could come in. This was the first time Engie had ever been in the van. It was unsurprisingly messy, though he was pleased to see there wasn’t any, er, “Jarate” laying around. Smelled like hand rolled cigarettes and kerosene, the latter from a surprisingly efficient little heater. Engie stamped his feet and moved closer to it, while Sniper gazed into the dark before shutting the door with a dark grumble. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call, casual dress aside. What was the shot?”

“You heard it, too?” Engineer blew into his one fleshy hand.  “Where from, you reckon?”

“Blus.” No doubt in his voice. Good. Same page all the way. Sniper rooted around in the piles about his bed, pulling out a pair of stained trousers.

“Hear anything else?”

Sniper paused while pulling on his socks. “I might’ve. Couldn’t be sure, but something woke me up—could’ve sworn it was a scream, mate. Got me worried but I thought it might have been a dream—til the shot.”

“Alarms are going off in the base. Well, sort of. Lights but no sound.” Engineer handed the Bushman his hat, jealous that he didn’t think to get dressed. “Eerie. Spy’s checking it out but I have the terrible feeling that someone is trying their damndest to make sure we got up without too much noise.”

His kukri, his rifle, his Huntsman, all in easy reach. Sniper was equipped and ready. “The robots again?” He reached into a little cabinet Engineer hadn’t even seen and pulled out a ratty looking coat, tossing it into Engineer’s lap without a word. Engineer pulled it on and stood up to go.

“Not a chance in hell. It’s too quiet out there.”

“Not for long, I’ll bet.”

Keen cold prickled away the last of his shock and sleepiness. Engineer was already drawing up tactical plans, adjusting for the unknown best he could. Sniper sucked in a deep breath and searched the upper story windows and ramparts, his rifle slung over one shoulder, Huntsman over his back. Cautious. Not panicked. Hard to tell with that long and stony face of his but Engineer thought he might look a tad excited. Under that reserved exterior, the man liked his blood. Not that Engie didn't, but he preferred to see it from behind a nice wall of sentries. 

Their base was still dark. Sniper didn't wait for him but followed Engie's snowy footprints back to the doors. "The others are all up, I reckon." Engineer said, jogging to catch up. Damn Slim's gangly limbs. "Medic was rousing them."

"Not who I'd want poking his nose into my dozing." Sniper stopped short, head snapping left and unslinging his rifle in one smooth movement. Engineer heard it as he was responding, the Gunslinger whirring to life-- a whistling, well familiar.

The rocket left a fiery trail behind it, a comet clearing the barn tops, arc perfectly measured. There was nothing they could do but watch that burning star fall to earth.

And by earth, Engie meant Sniper’s truck.


	2. Fear is The Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regrouping. A peculiar anxiety presents in the mercenaries. Pyro is still sick. Spy brings back an ace in the hole.

 

          The explosion was thunder, fury, fire, and shock. It blossomed from the truck in a mushroom of white light that lifted both Sniper and Engineer and tossed them into the perimeter fence like an angry child flinging her dolls. The shockwave paid no attention to flesh but reverberated off bone; Sniper felt it echoing endlessly within his ribcage, battering his heart and tearing the tissue of his lungs. He had no idea that he’d been thrown, but thought he had been blinded because all he could see was a field of black, and then a visceral panic Sniper had rarely known (Bloody hell my eyes NOT MY EYES) brought him to his senses. He wasn’t blind, he was laid flat, staring up into night sky. Pain arrived, brought friends. He couldn’t hear a thing but tinny ringing, like when Demo’s bodgy explosives went off too close.

          Higher thought finally made an entrance. “Mm van,” he was sure he said, though he heard only a muffled whumping. “My bloody van!”

          Sniper rolled over and confronted the inferno and blackened bones that was, or had been, his home.  He gaped, stuttering disbelief. His van. His stuff. His bloody everything, they’d blown it up. The pikers had gone after HIS VAN.

          Sniper wobbled to his feet and took a few baby-like steps toward the flaming wreckage. Smaller explosions-- his ferreted petrol and the paraffin heater going up.  Disbelief was steaming away, and rage took its place. In fact, rage took the place of everything. Pain, rationality, common sense? No. Only hate. “YOU … YOU SHITS. YOU BLOODY, YOU FUCKS, YOU . .  I’LL SKIN YOU ALIVE, EVERY ONE, I’LL WEAR YOUR TEETH ROUND ME NECK, WHERE ARE YOU SHAGGERS?” He didn’t realize his rifle was still in his hand until he heard it go off, repeatedly, fired without aiming into the direction that the rocket had come.  

          Something closed around his ankle and he came bloody millimeters from shooting it out of reflex, but he looked down instead, and saw Engie’s human hand wrapped round his ankle.  Hadn’t even remembered the bald bastard was there, and the hand was attached to a blood-speckled arm sticking out from under a chunk of familiar siding.

          “Shit!” Sniper flung aside the metal and dropped to his knees in the sooty snow. He still couldn’t hear anything but Engineer’s lips were flapping. The man’s eyes were squinting shut against a bath of blood pouring from a cut across his forehead. “What?”

          Engineer pushed himself upright, smearing the blood from his eyes, and grabbed Sniper’s arm.  There were more muffled booms. Sniper grabbed his gun and tried to sight through the chaotic mess, but everything was fire and smoke.

          “SNIPER,” Engineer’s voice finally reached him. Engie was already standing, somehow, the Gunslinger sparking. His other hand was wrapped around Sniper’s vest, yanking. Trying to pull him away.

          “Not a chance, Truckie!” Sniper roared, tearing his vest out of Engineer’s weakened grip. “I’m going to find these fucks, I’m going to gut ‘em and have ‘em for dinner! Get offa me!”

          Engineer had grabbed him again, more forcefully, and to Sniper’s surprise dizziness weakened him. He couldn’t push Engie off. He groped behind him seeking any purchase to fight but his hand slipped off, covered in blood- his own or the other man’s, who could tell. “SNIPER, WE GOTTA MOVE.”

          “*You* gotta move, ya bleedin’ coward! You get your greasy hands—you let me go!”

          “DAMMIT, SLIM.”

          Sniper wriggled again and popped free at last, falling face first into the snow. He tried to roll over to kick Engineer away and jabbed himself in the back with something pointy. He snarled, tore at it, and pulled away the final straw: his Huntsman, splintered in two from where he landed on it after hitting the fence, only the bowstring connecting the two pieces. Dimly, he was aware of fresh pain in his back. Engineer grabbed him by the shoulder again, his face white and looking shocked. “Me Huntsman.” Was all Sniper could offer.

           “We gotta get you to the Doc!” Engineer’s voice was a little more audible, now. “Sniper, get yer ass in gear. That weren’t no Soldier rocket! Move!”

 Engineer hauled Sniper to his feet and would have helped him stand, but he was just too short and Sniper too tall for that camaraderie. Sniper tensed—through the smoke, a Heavy’s giant figure materialized, minigun in hand. It took him too damn long to recognize the red shirt, and then the rest of his team was there.

  “Holy shit! What the fuck happened?” Scout gawked. Yeah, like he’d never seen something blown up before.

  “Someone popped us with a bomb real powerful and real mean. Look boys, we gotta get back inside. Whoever got it into their heads to attack us here, they ain’t foolin’ around.” Engineer said. He moved aside and Medic was there, glaring at Sniper like he was personally responsible for this clusterfuck. Sniper felt that weird, nerve-numbed tingling, pins and needles and crawling maggots as his flesh stitched itself back together.

           Soldier shoved Scout aside and shook his fist at both his team and unseen enemies. “What’s the matter, girls? Afraid of a little late night campfire? Do we need to break out the weenies and marshmallows? NO! We need to go on the offensive, find these bastards, and avenge the dearly departed!”

            “Bloody right,” Sniper muttered, and winced as Medic shone a pen light into his eyes.

            “Concussion. Give the Medigun a moment, herr Sniper.”

           “Give him a moment indoors,” Engineer said. Everyone turned to stare at him, as his voice had cracked on the last syllable. That was new. “Boys, you don’t seem to be grasping the severity of the situation. We are outside the perimeter. Y’all not cognatin’ what that means?”

           “It means a bunch of knuckleheads have tried to knock us where it hurts.”

           “Goddamnit, Scout, no! We’re sitting here jawing while they ready whatever comes next, and we’re up shit creek! Respawn don’t work out here, hoss!”

           Silence as the team processed this. Sniper, used to counting his team mates as they ran into the fray, realized that Demoman, Pyro, and Spy were all missing at the same moment Heavy started Sasha spinning.

          “So,” Heavy said. “They are trying to *kill* kill us, now.”

           Sniper knew what fear felt like. No matter how much experience he had with the Respawn machine, the lived evidence that he would come back after that terrible darkness claimed him, the moments before death were awful ones. Life didn’t give itself over easily. As his heart would stop the same thoughts always raced through his head, right before they became birds and flew away: what if it doesn’t work this time? What if I don’t come back?

           He looked at the end of his Huntsman, the part that had impaled him. It was covered with blood five inches from the jagged tip. Could have been a killing wound. A real one. “Where’s Demo and Pyro?”

          “Don’t worry, bitte. Zhey are inside. Pyro is, ah … he is ill. Demo volunteered to vatch him.”

           “Ill?” Engineer  shook his head. “We’ll talk about it inside. Come on fellas, please.”

          “Engie is right. Everyone back. Now.” Heavy’s rumbling baritone held the kind of command the giant man only got when he was extra protective. Medic helped Sniper to his feet. The wooziness was much diminished.  He wasn’t the sentimental type, more territorial, but his heart ached to see his one and only home burn, and him turning his back on it. That bloody van had come across continents with him. He’d had it since … piss, he didn’t even know. Forever and ever, amen.

          Medic and Engineer helped him back toward the base. Even Soldier wasn’t arguing, though Sniper heard him muttering under his breath about tactical retreat being a completely different than surrender.  Heavy covered their rear, Sasha still running. They stumbled over the collapsed fence, and immediately Sniper felt peculiar relief, like a kid that’s touched home base.  _Safe._

 ****

          The wall was gray. It had cracks and chips, but no polka dots and cheery stripes. Just … gray. The only decoration was a faded (faded!) picture of a girl showing her rump and it made Pyro feel uncomfortable to look at because she was surprised and unhappy that her rump was showing and he wanted to pull her dress down for her.

          His lighter was on the table in front of him. There was nothing else to look at but the wall and the unhappy girl and he didn’t want to see either, but he also didn’t want to see his lighter. His fingers itched for it. His mind tried to trick him—maybe this time things would be different? But he’d tried, he really did, over and over. It was the same. The push-click-fwooph came, and beyond the realm of thought his heart would lift as he saw sparklies, but then … just flame.

          Fire.

          Not magic. Not rainbows.

          Pyro stuck his hands between his knees. The duckies were still smiling at least, but they weren’t talking to him anymore. They were nothing but cloth. Dead pictures.  The smiles were some comfort, a reminder of the place where he was *supposed* to be. Every time he closed his eyes to seek refuge in the colored swirls behind his lids, horrible visions returned: screaming, running, dying, hiding from him. Begging for help at his boot. Nothing but death and pain. He knew what these things were from horror books but he read those because they made him shiver in safe delight: a taste of the perilous world beyond his meadows. That was a terrible place, and was far away. Balloonicorn always knew when he had been reading too much and would take him outside to sit in the flowers.

          And now, here he was, in a room with gray walls and fire, and horrible rubber smells instead of cookies. He’d been kidnapped, taken to The Bad Place. It was the only explanation. *And no one noticed*.

          That was the scariest part. Pyro finally looked away from the wall, to where Demoman was humming to himself, checking over his cupcake popper, bottle of apple cider at his side as usual. The Popper looked … meaner …    than Pyro remembered it. It didn’t have any ribbons or smears of frosting, though there was a bit of something brown flaking off the barrel when Demoman touched it. And he was loading it with these black canisters with glowing ends. They were *kinda* pretty, but definitely *not* cupcakes. Pyro wanted to grab the man and shake sense into him. Why aren’t you concerned? You’ve been brainwashed! Snap out of it! What’s wrong with you?

          “You bonny, firebug?” Demo asked, noticing Pyro’s attention. “Feeling better yet?”

          Pyro didn’t know what to do but shrug. Demo chuckled, took a swig of his cider, and sighted down the barrel of his popper. “I dinnae think I’d ever see you not flickin’ that thing, lad. I understand a nightmare can shake ye up, lord knows I do.”

          “It’s not mine, it’s been replaced,” Pyro slapped his hands on his knees in frustration. Demo, though, he just shook his head.        

          “You know I’m shite at translatin’ for ya once I’ve sobered up some. Wait til Engie comes back, he’ll know what tae say. Ach, there we are.” Demo spun the clip of his popper and grinned, a wide, feral grin. “Locked and loaded. Or loched. Hah! Aw, that was dumb.”

          A muffled thump overhead. Pyro didn’t know *what* that was; it sounded like a marshmallow cloud being popped, and it kept happening, the first time really loudly. Demo looked up as some dust filtered down, and sighed his gloomy sigh. Pyro wished he could cheer him up like usual—some sparkledust and a lot of cider usually did the trick.

          “Oh, listen to it. The lads are havin’ all the fun, I know it. Things explodin’ and I’m nowhere to be found.”

          “What's exploding?” Pyro watched Demo's face for any clues to the man's odd behavior, but Demo just shrugged, a gesture so essentially normal that it couldn't be affected for their unseen kidnappers.

          Maybe it wasn't faked . . .maybe there was a reason Demo and Medic and all of his friends seemed so cool in light of their transplant to this hell hole.

          Maybe they weren't really his friends.

          Pyro's hands, still tucked between his knees, involuntarily clenched up. A new horror prickled his skin with goosepimples. Doppelgangers, meant to confuse him and stun him into complacency. Why, he bet the same thing was happening to every one of them, waking up in terror and calmed by a group that just seemed that much off. Their toys replaced by deadly weapons, their minds all shook up, for what sinister reason? Pyro was glad his face was still on securely, because the Demo Doppel couldn't see him glaring at the cunning facsimile. This clone looked more worn than Pyro's Demo, his one good eye puffy and bagged. The cupcakes on his vest were gone, of course, replaced by more of those canisters. Otherwise, the disguise was perfect.

           If this was some terrible experiment, Pyro couldn't let on. He had two options: play along and hope they eventually gave him some clue as to where the rest of his friends were being held; or try to escape now and come back with the 5th Gingerbread Battalion in tow.

          He had to play it cool. Pyro started whistling, a tune his Demo loved. It was a dirty trick, but to his surprise, the Demo Dopple sighed, closing his eye, and started singing along under his breath in that strange and beautiful language his Demo would use, warbling a little on the high notes: “A’ falbh sa gheamhradh gu luaidh is bainnsean . . .”

            Pyro grabbed the cider bottle out of the clone’s limp fingers and bashed him right over his lying noggin. The bottle shattered, little hunks of brown glass tinkling against the walls and the table, and they were both doused in a pungent, nougat-colored liquid. There should have been tiny birdies, and Pyro waited for them, but they didn’t show up to sing and cavort around Demo Doppel’s head. What did come was blood. A lot of it.

            He could not have been more horrified if you’d dropped him into a vat of spiders. Pyro recoiled, tripping over his chair as the clone toppled forward, smearing a red line on the tabletop.

            _Blood and fire, gunshots, screaming. An axe in his hand. Sizzling flesh. Blood, blood, raining . . ._

All thoughts of escape dissolved in the acid of panic. Pyro clapped his hands over his eyes, curled into a ball, and screamed.

****

             Sniper wasn’t feeling better. Oh, the Medigun had done its job, patching him up right as rain, but as they retreated into the base the screaming had started, and that undid his last nerve.

             They scrambled downstairs to find Demoman, furious and soaked, shaking his fist at a little, quaking ball of fleece. Pyro, curled up like a downed joey with his head between his knees. Demo’s head sheeted blood, a great wash decorating the side of his vest, the floor, the table, and a little bit on the ceiling. From his mad gesticulating, Sniper presumed.

             As usual, Scout found words first. “What the hell?”

             “Thas’ what I’d like to know!” Demo roared. He waved around the shattered stump of his Scrumpy bottle. “We was having a grand ol’ time, though I was missing me callin’, when suddenly this great red ARSE—“ Demo kicked Pyro for emphasis “—came along an walloped me upside the egg!”

             “I leave for FIVE MINUTES, and *another* head injury pops up!” Medic grabbed Demo’s wrist and fair drug him across the room, leaving the whimpering puddle of Pyro behind. “You knew Pyro vas sick--“

             “’Ee’s out of his fookin mind!”

             “Like that’s any change,” Scout snorted. Engineer elbowed him aside to kneel by the shaking Pyro, his hands hovering over the body.

             “Leave him alone, Scout. Lookit the poor boy, he’s plum terrified. Doc, what’s wrong with him?”

             “Ee’s a bloody pissing-“

             “I haven’t ze slightest, zho, ah, an operating table and my bonesaw might illuminate ze problem. Brain swelling, perhaps?”

             “Doc!” Horrified, Engineer seemed to be sure he could protect Pyro just by covering him with his body.

             “Come on, Engie, lighten up. He had a bad dream, woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and went double his usual dose of crazy,” Scout was grinning, bearing all his substantial teeth. It was a feral look, as off-kilter cousin to Pyro’s shaking. Bloodlust smeared over fear, the face of an animal cornered and wounded. Something isn’t right with him, Sniper thought. Him an us all. “An he’s attacking his teammates while we’re getting bombed. Why are we wasting our time with him? Man up, pally!” He punctuated this with a swift kick right in Pyro’s ass. Pyro squeaked, and Engineer shot up to his full unimpressive height, closing the distance between he and Scout in a blink.

             “You are seriously running on my last nerve, boy.”

             “What’re you gonna do about it, baldy? Put some pants on?”

             Engineer blushed, but the Gunslinger was flexed tight, metal creaking. It was a good thing Heavy was strong enough to stop Engie’s swing, because a good right hook like that would have taken Scout’s jaw clean off. Sniper knew; he’d seen it happen. Soldier took Scout, nearly lifting the kid off his feet in an effort to restrain him.

             “Nyet! Little baby men want to do the job of unseen enemies?” Heavy glowered, nostrils flaring. Face sunburn red, arm restrained halfway through the punch, Engineer closed his eyes and resorted to heavy breathing to calm himself. Heavy swiveled to stare at Scout. Kid was puffed up in defiance, face set into the toughest sneer he could muster, pushing off Soldier’s grip. Sniper’d seen him go after some tough targets when he looked like that, and win through sheer brutality. If Scout’d had his bat, Sniper would’ve bet good money this scene ended with one dead jackrabbit and a one brain-damaged Heavy.

             Pyro whimpered, and it broke the staring contest. Scout threw his hands into the air. “Whatever. I’m getting dressed, I’m getting my shit, and then I’m gonna bat in some skulls. See you losers back here in five.”

             “Affirmative, private! Everyone, get your slimy, yellow-tailed asses to the armory and bring back some firepower! And I ain’t talking snap-crackles, or sprinkler-sparklers, or whatever kiddy-play-time squirtguns you call your armament! I mean BOOM, maggots! We’re trenching in! Where’s my shovel?” Soldier grabbed Engie by the shoulder, and marched him in the opposite direction. “Let’s go, Colonel Underpants! Get yer’ britches on!”

             Sometimes Sniper thought that man smarter than he let on.

             Medic pushed Demo into the chair, and started in on his head wound, tching and humming in equal measure. Heavy crouched against the doors, pressing his ear to the wood. Their arguing would have been a great opportunity for whoever was gunning for them to take a pot-shot, but for whatever reason they weren’t advancing. Sniper was half grateful, half maddened by it. He found his way to the table and slumped against the surface. That little spat got his blood pounding in a way that made his ears ring and the patched-up puncture wound ache. Maybe it was the shock of the Van, but it was weird. Fights broke out between them all the time. Battles didn’t trigger that much adrenaline in him. He felt . . .

             He felt endangered. He felt as afraid as Scout had looked. And that made him *more* afraid. “Doc?”

             “Mm?”

           “You know of any kind of . . . fear gas, or something?”

             “Nein.” Medic replied, mouth set into a slash. He picked a piece of brown glass out of Demo’s scalp (“Ach, be careful, Doc!”). “Vhy do you ask? Feeling a bit . . . anxious?"

            Pyro had crawled under the table, close enough to Sniper’s legs to be, uncomfortable. He could just see a stray piece of bottle coming at his Achilles tendon, so he moved to lean against the wall instead. “I’m sure you haven’t overlooked that everyone seems a bit more on edge than usual?”

             “I have not overlooked it, no.”

             “You are saying we are all acting little bunny rabbits.” Heavy had his hand on Sasha’s handle. “I hear nothing outside.”

             “Don’t get huffy, Heavy. Now, sehr gut, Demoman. Don’t shake your head or your brain vill leak out your ears.” Medic flipped the switch on the Medigun and the weird gasoline-antiseptic stench of its fumes filled up the room. “I believe whoever is attacking us is trying to use psychological warfare. Zhey are finding our buttons und pressing them, von by von. I have not ruled out chemical assistance.”

             Alarmed, Heavy put a hand over his nose. “We are being gassed? Is true?”

             “You are such the drama queen!” Medic snapped. “I have no idea. It is a possibility, von of many. Clearly, something has been done to Pyro. Speaking of vich . . . vhere did he go? Ach, zhere. Come on, you little trouble maker. Out you come.”           Medic grabbed Pyro by the boot and tugged. He slid out from under the table with his hands over his head. “Help me vith zis, Heavy.”

             Demo looked on, face sour, as Pyro was propped up next to him. Firebug was mumbling nonsense again, unresponsive to Medic’s commands or Heavy’s smoothing rumble. He was poking at the duckies on his pajamas, making the cloth move like the ducks were bobbing in the water. Sniper took to pacing. If it *was * a gas, wouldn’t Pyro’s mask have stopped it? Maybe something in their food? But no, he’d shot his own rabbit last night, felt like he needed a bit of wild in him (and Soldier’s mess was always crook). Chemical warfare was just *sick*. Bloody cowards, whoever their enemies were.

           Sniper froze. “Where’s the Spook?”    

           Medic frowned, exchanged a look with Heavy. “He said he vould try and find us some official information about our predicament. Zhat vas a vhile ago, however . . .”

           “Should we go looking, then?” Demo pawed for his grenade launcher, but Medic smacked his hand like he was a child reaching for a forbidden lolly.

           “Nein! Ve are not separating any more than ve have to. Zhat might be just vhat they are vaiting for.” 

           “Astute.”

           They all jumped. The air shimmered, hissed, smoked, and Spy appeared. He looked none the worse for wear, but his face was drawn, almost peakish. There was none of his cocky, sneering humor. “Bloody hell, Spy!” Sniper clutched his chest. His poor ticker was not getting a break.

           “My apologies. I have some bad news, Gentlemen.” Spy hefted a large, dark red object atop the table. They boggled.

           “Why does little masked man have the Intelligence?” Heavy asked, carefully enunciating each word. Spy dropped the butt of his cigarette and immediately lit another. The flame shivered before it found the tip. He let them stew while he took the first draw, sucking down smoke so hard that a good quarter inch of the cig was turned to ash.

           “Because,” he breathed through a wreath of smoke. “It is the ace up our sleeve. Phone lines are down. Defenses are down.” He flicked the ash. “And I believe, though I am not Engineer, that our Respawn has been rerouted.”

           You could have shivved someone with that silence, it was so sharp. Spy straightened his tie, his lapels, his cuffs, his composure. Sniper felt like the room had contracted, squishing them too close. He didn’t mind tight spaces, but crowds were anathema. How six men could feel multiplied to dozens was beyond him, but he couldn't take it. They’d yapped so long because they’d been defaulting to the routine, even after the explosion, relying on the normalcy of combat, fighting, enemies known or unknown. Been doing this for how many years now? Strewth, Sniper couldn’t wrap his head around it. A blurred wash of memories, day after endless, seasonless day of killin’ and bleeding and dying. Years. So many goddamn years, and they’d gotten used to it, and now someone had finally changed the program and they weren’t adapting fast enough. They were trapped, clueless and defenseless, animals being taken out behind the woodshed and shot, trusting beasts—

           “Are you alright, comrade Sniper?”

           Heavy was staring at him. *Everyone* was staring at him. Didn’t help the discomfort, but it helped bring him back down to reality. Sweat trickled down his nose; his hands rapped against the wall with their shaking. “I’m . . . just thinking that if we’re on our own, it’s time we stopped gabbin’ and started figuring out what’s what and who’s trying to kill us.”

           “Not quite on our own.” Spy set his hands on the clasps of the briefcase. “I told you, we have an ace.”

           “Ya can't be serious, laddie! You ain't thinkin' of opening that, are ye? We'll be fired for sure if we pop that case open, even for a weensy look.” Demo tried to stand up, but he still hadn't the balance. He wobbled, and it took Medic grabbing him by the armpits to stop his fall. Uneasy Heavy was looking to Medic, the way he always did when seeking a way to go. Pyro oozed out of his chair, groaning, headed for the dark cave of Under the Table again. Sniper squirmed and wiped his brow (he stank, Christ, fear sweat smell. The worst. Dead giveaway for predators.) Now that Demo had said it, the thought of popping the locks on that brute of a briefcase gave him one hell of a stomachache. Felt like he did when gutting something and he nicked the intestines, all the meat gone bad with shit and offal. Disgust. Few things struck Sniper as Wrong, but for reasons he couldn't name, opening that case? That was one of them. And he wasn't alone. When Spy flipped the locks, Heavy started.

           “I wouldn't do that, fat man.” Spy's hands hovered on the lid. “This is our only way.”

           “How do you know that?” Sniper crossed his arms, uncrossed them, did it again. If looks could kill, Spy's would have done a more efficient job that his switchblade. It was a gaze that **withered**. Sniper held himself in check, backed down. If Spy was right, did he really want to sabotage their chances? Medic put one hand on Heavy's arm, and he too stood back.

           They held their collective breaths as Spy did the unthinkable: he breached the intelligence.

           Sniper didn't know what he was expecting. Poison darts, maybe? To be struck down by the hand of god? Inside was a stack of papers that Spy ignored, a file folder or two, and inside the top, a video screen flanked by buttons, but it was still nauseating him. You didn’t open it. It was the INTELLIGENCE. _You didn’t open it._

           This was fucking ridiculous. Sniper forced relaxation as much as he could. “Should we wait for others?” Heavy asked, tentative as he could be.

           Spy punched a few of the buttons. “Do you feel like giving our attackers more preparation time? Non? Then shut up.” The screen flickered to life. Drawn, moths to sizzling bug light, Sniper, Heavy, Medic and Demo all peered past Spy's shoulders. Only Pyro didn't respond. Sniper felt a little bad about leaving him under the table to wallow in his crazy but what could be done? If Medic couldn't help, he certainly couldn't. And now the screen was developing a picture, a scene stuttering past. Spy turned a little knob and the tracking grew steadier. They were staring at a big black object in a blacker field-- a chair. The back of a chair that was facing away from the screen.

           “May day.” Spy intoned. “May day. This is Spy, codename Spy, reporting from Red Base: Barn Blitz. Do you read me? Is anyone there?” Silence. The hairs on the back of Sniper's neck stood at attention. Spy rubbed his eyes, lit a fresh cigarette, and tried again. “Administration, this is a may day call. This is the Red Spy. We are under attack by unknown assailants. Communications have been disrupted. If you have orders, we kindly request you share them with us.”

           Somewhere off screen, a clatter, something metal hitting the concrete floor, but excruciating lengths of nothing were all that followed. Sniper saw goosebumps on Medic’s arms when he grabbed the case and turned it towards him, glasses flashing with the glare of the screen. “Is someone in charge vithin earshot? Are you zhere? Ve are under attack. Ve have injuries. Please respond if—“

           “Medic?”

           Dragging sounds, thumping, a peeping noise. Ms. Pauling limped into view of the screen. Her dress was torn and streaked dark—Sniper couldn’t tell, in the black-and-white nature of the video feed, if it was blood or dirt. But her leg trailed and there was definitely blood *there*, spattered down her calf and disappearing into the leather cups of her sensible shoes. She had tied the remains of her pantyhose right above the knee. She paused at the chair, supporting herself on it but reluctant to come closer; her eyes flickered to the floor, where they couldn’t see, before she turned the chair round and pulled herself into the seat. White foam poked out of a slew of bullet holes along the back. The killer in him measured the distance—assuming a person of medium height, that was frontal lobes, brain stem, heart, heart again just in case the ribcage got in the way. Double tap to the head and chest. Clean. Professional.

           He knew it before she said it. Ms. Pauling straightened her glasses, but she couldn’t hide her shaking hands. “Medic, Spy, whoever else is there. I’m afraid help isn’t going to be coming.” She swallowed. “The Announcer—Administration—they’re dead.

           They’re all dead.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight changes from the version that went up on Tumblr; line-by-line editing found some more typos and a few inconsistencies, and I weeded out a little more of the passive language. 
> 
> Next: Ms. Pauling needs help, but so do the Mercs. Their assailants make another move, but where has Scout gone to?


	3. Chapter 3: The Man at the Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout makes a discovery. Ms. Pauling offers an explanation and an order.

            “This is BULLSHIT.” Scout slammed the locker door, regretted it. The clang gave his headache a leg up, so now it was at a seven or eight and goddamn did he need a couple of aspirin and a Bonk to wash them down. He couldn’t even make it back to his damn dorm—he got *lost* looking for it. Lost! Him! It was the fucking pounding, just . . . couldn’t think straight. Course then he got his head together, right, and found the locker room. Kind just stumbled into it. But it was really his natural navigational instincts, obviously. Wasn’t nothing fancy stored in there, but with his scattergun, pistol, and his bat, that classic number so chipped and bloodstained it warmed the cockles of his heart, yeah, with these things he felt a lot better. Till he slammed the door, of course.

 Screw tonight. Screw Truckie. Screw Pyro and his weird little freak out. Screw all a’them. They were being pussies and it made Scout sick to his stomach. And especially screw whatever piece of work tried to kill ‘em outside the respawn zone. Who does that? Seriously, *who does that*? Grey didn’t do that, right? Grey knew the rules. It was all part of the war. Blu never did and they were the most low-down sons of bitches a guy could ask for as enemies.

 The headache squeezed his brain. He needed a Bonk. He really needed a Bonk, he was going into withdrawal. Demo and his Scrumpy had *nothing* on that sweet, sweet syrup. He just had to get to the kitchen first. Truckie and them, they could take a flying leap until he popped that tab.

 The hallways were jacked up. They were all fun house mirror, and any lights had a fuzzy halo around them. He thought that this was the right way to the kitchen, but ended up staring at a locked door instead. “Something ain't right here . . .” he muttered. “Someone's messing with me.” He **one hundred percent** remembered the mess hall was down this way in Barn Blitz.  Or, wait-- was that Barn Blitz, or was it Viaduct? Upward, maybe?

 This is why he couldn't find his fucking dorm. And in the middle of wandering the halls, he had this loopy idea he should have been in his apartment, but he didn't **have** an apartment. He didn't think.

 Man, what if whatever kookiness Pyro had was catching? He did have this headache. Maybe he was getting sick. Oh man maybe he was **dying**. He totally was dying. He caught a brain tumor. He caught the crazy. He had to get back to the doc, get looked over.

 Scout turned around to stare at the dark hallway behind him. It was really quiet, he couldn't hear the guys at all. And even retracing his steps . . . his mind felt like a sack of dirty laundry, all jumbled and sticking together and stained. How did he get back? He was in Barn Blitz, and that meant he went upstairs, didn't he? “Get it together pal,” he said. For once, his voice didn't help focus him. It echoed in the dark and lonely corridor.

 Best to just move.

 The Sunday paper was delivered to them every week, and all the guys had their section. Scout grabbed the funny papers. He chewed gum and traipsed through the comics and then, if he was feeling cocky (and no one was around), he'd try out the little puzzles at the end. Not, like, the crossword or word jumble-- those were for eggheads-- but maybe connect the dots or the maze. He liked connect the dots, but the maze, man, he was a MASTERHe was trying to remember this like one of them mazes. Keeping to the right, hand on the wall. Not that he *needed* to, right, it was just a precaution.

 Scout turned the corner, and standing at the end of it was the Blu Spy, back turned, under the spotlight of a red-flashing alarm. Struck dumb, Scout got that chance to confirm it was him when the smell of that gross-ass European gay cigarette wafted over. He hefted his bat. The Spy wasn't doing squat, just standing there. Like he was waiting. Well, he was gonna get a hell of a beating for his patience. “Hey, ya balaclava loving bastard! I gotta special delivery for you, in memory of a good night's sleep. This is for trying to off us, ya prick!”

 The Spy dropped his cigarillo and bolted down the left-hand corridor without pausing to look behind him. Scout whooped, and the chase was on. Bat rapping against the door frames he jetted past, Scout didn't have to think about where he was going, because where he was going was after that froggy tool. He didn't know what the Blu Spy was thinking, **running** from him. Of all things! Ain't no one-- NO ONE-- faster. The gap was closing and in only a few twists and turns Scout was seeing more than a leg or coattail disappearing round the next bend. “Shouldn't have ruined your lungs, old timer!”

 Spy didn't taunt back. Out of breath, probably. He was slowing down, but getting trickier-- wherever they were running the hallways were getting shorter so he could take more twisty bits, and there were a bunch of pipes sticking out the walls that blocked Scout's view or slowed him down when he had to jump, duck, or dodge 'em. Holy shit, was he being led under Blu base? This didn't look like the RED safehouse no more . . . whatever. Spy tripped, going hard on his knees before tucking and rolling back up and Scout longed for his ball. He coulda beaned him then and there. Probably coulda got him with his pistol but, nah, this was a job for his bestest wooden friend.

 And then round one turn, Spy just wasn't there. Scout skidded-- actually skidded, the floor was slick metal now, not the corrugated stuff in their fightin' areas- through an open door way and into a room. A very, very large room, totally unfamiliar. There was a big machine in the center of it, large as the frickin' death ray in Nucleus, thrumming with power. Now that Scout wasn't running he could feel it through the soles of his shoes, jittering the bones of his legs. The hairs on his arms were standing up with the static electricity it was putting off. Ringing the bottom of it were control panels, or at least a bunch of screens and blinky shit.

 A man leaned over one of the controls, muttering to himself. He hadn't noticed Scout yet, just stared at his wrist. He was tall and had silver hair cut short with a long face and giant honker; wearing weird gray clothes, tightly fitted, a little like something out of Star Trek, and one of his sleeves was pushed up to the elbow. Scout registered that he was poking the flesh right under his palm, and then, no shit, something under the skin **glowed**. Like the lights on the control panels. The stranger tapped his arm and things got weirder, cause light flowed up his hand and glittered on his palm in a thousand strands of white that he could tap and move around just by running his finger along the skin.

 He had to be a robot. An advanced one. Jesus Holy Mother Mary, Scout had to tell the guys about this. In his hands, his bat creaked. The man was looking from his palm to the panel in front of him and pressing an assortment of buttons. Scout had no freakin' clue what this big machine was, but it looked important. Under Blu base or under his own, did it really matter? A goddamn super robot was here messing with stuff. _Sabotage._ Run off now and this spacesuit freak could blow them all to high hell.“Hey, pally! You a little lost or something? Cause I'm thinking you might need a little help finding your way out of here.”

 He surprised the intruder, and as Scout stepped forward, tapping his bat on his shoe, he saw why-- past a few feet from the door the machine's thrum increased, and it felt like someone was stuffing cotton into his ears. It wasn't like Scout was hearing it, exactly, more like feeling it the way you felt a peal of thunder. The man blinked. Just . . . blinked, and smirked, and _holy shit he was fast_ he had sleek black gun as unfamiliar as his clothes and a finger on the trigger.

 Scout didn't think, he just strafed and sprinted. And the man was either startled by that or by the screech of machinery as the great engine behind him shuddered, because when he shot, he didn't blow Scout's head off. But it was a near thing. A really near thing. Near enough that the bullet seared the side of Scout's face and ripped his ear in two.

 

****

  
            Ms. Pauling composed herself before the mercenaries' hubbub died down. Her glasses kept slipping down her nose but otherwise she was a picture of strength, visibly shaking off the panic and straightening her posture. She did not lean back in the chair, however, even if perching on its edge left her white knuckled.

 Spy ground his spent cigarette into the metal floor and immediately lit another. It was more useful than attempting to parse the torrent of yelling, especially since most of the yelling was everyone yelling for everyone **else** to _stop yelling._  That was why he was in the position to see her regain personal authority. They were twins in patience as the children bickered, or in Pyro's case, keened.

 “That's enough,” Ms Pauling said, when there was finally enough quiet that her tinny-static signal was audible. Spy admired her poise, though she was obviously in a great deal of pain and fear besides. He doubted any one of them could hide it-- save himself, of course.

He hoped he was doing a good enough job.

“Miss Pauling, how bad are ye, lass?”

“Shot. Once in the left calf, grazed on the right hip and the elbow. I'm stable, I think. I know how to tie a tourniquet. Where's everyone else?”

“Getting veapons und supplies.” Medic answered. As Miss Pauling's glasses slipped again, he pushed up his own in unconscious mimicry. Little details, little signs.

“We will need them to fight.” Heavy clapped Sniper and Medic on the shoulders. “Is good you are safe. They blew up Little Sniper's Little Home. Is very sad, but we will blow **them** up. And Pyro is sick!”

“What? Sick how?" 

They would spend forever describing every detail of the night to her, and Spy knew there was no time for that. There were relevant questions, auxiliary questions, and *necessary* questions. “Panicked. The unusual circumstances aren't doing very much for our unstable friend, but--”

“Is he hallucinating?” She cut in.

Spy had a vision of putting his cigarette out on her wagging tongue. The violence of the image, its vividity, its suddenness shocked him. He felt something loose in his mouth-- he'd bitten though the filter. _Merde_. As quick as it had some, the intrusive thought and the rage that powered it were gone, but Spy was shaken. Never had he thought of harming Miss Pauling that way-- his teammates, yes, the other team, every day, but not mademoiselle Pauling. He needed to get her to focus. All of them to focus, before any one of them went out of control. Fear stench-- the room was full of it. Their nervous faces, pale and contorted, clammy, lips dry, unconscious tics. His lungs burned with smoke, the nicotine helping some. He was calmer than the rest. He could handle this. He had *better* handle this. Medic was rambling at the screen, throwing out medical jargon to describe Pyro, quivering mess, even loonier than usual. Sweat was beading on Miss Pauling’s cheeks, catching the light.

“Ta gueule!” He pulled Medic away from the screen, ignoring his offense. “Miss Pauling.”

She had her eyes closed and Spy thought she might have passed out. But no, she was taking deep breaths, forehead knotted. “Okay,” she said. “Listen up, guys. I guess—no. I know. I’m taking command here. I’m your boss now. So whatever I say goes, no matter what. Do you understand me?” Maybe it was the chair, or the clipped way she said it, but there was a little of the old Administrator in her question. Everyone was nodding. She pushed up her glasses again, mouth a tight little sketch.  “Good. You’re speaking to me through the emergency communicator in the intelligence briefcase, right?”

“Oui,” Spy hit the cigarette again and called on his composure. He wanted to betray nothing of the uneasiness that question left in him, and the way Ms. Pauling looked directly at him when she asked it, like they were sharing a secret. Perhaps they were. Perhaps she knew exactly why, from the moment he awoke in confusion and blood-red light, only one thought looped within his head: get the Intelligence. A compulsory message, intrusive as his nicotine cravings. Like a recording, playing endlessly.

“In that briefcase you’ll have found some loose papers and a couple of folders. Take them. The papers should be schematic maps. Look for one that has a, um—“ she pinched the bridge of her nose. “A header that says “Barn Blitz, RED facility level 4, protocol 7. Have you got it?”

Already shuffling through the small stack, Spy didn’t take more than a moment to glance over the other papers he passed on his hunt, but he noticed a pattern quick enough. They were indeed schematics, or more precisely, blueprints of their base. All of it. Including a vast amount that Spy had never seen before, an intricate network of tunnels and rooms that dwarfed what RED team knew as Barn Blitz. “I have it.”

“That map describes an evacuation route through the basement of the Barn Blitz facility. Retrieve everyone else and *immediately* follow it. Don’t worry about anything else.”

“We’re running away like little baby cowards?” Heavy cocked his head, squeezing Medic’s shoulder.

“No arguments!” Ms. Pauling barked. Her voice cracked on the last syllable; she’d almost lifted herself out of the chair, eyes wide and wild. None of them had ever, not once, heard her yell. “Yes, we’re retreating. You guys are not equipped for this, you . . .” she shook her head.

“You do not think we are strong enough?” Heavy’s voice was gentler, but that could mean kindness or it could mean danger. Spy stepped out of arm’s reach, just in case. He noticed Sniper had squirmed away, too.

“Oh, Heavy.” Ms Pauling pushed her bedraggled hair out of her eyes, adjusted her glasses again, breathed slowly into her cupped palms until she trusted herself to speak again. “I do trust you, on a level playing field. But this is *not* a level playing field. The men who are attacking you—men I think are in the employ of Grey Mann—they are using unfair tactics. They’re, uh. God. They’re using biological weapons.”

“ _What_?”

“They’re poisoning you. They’re making you crazy. There’s an antidote—we suspected something like this was coming—we have a cure. It’s a virus. You should be feeling . . . afraid, I’d guess? And pain will be way more intense than what you’re used to. And you’ll probably be confused. Like, feeling out of place, or unable to remember sequences of events in the proper order. Memories won’t seem consistent.”

The room exploded again. Medic was trying to ask her questions, Heavy and Demo were yowling in rage, Pyro began his wailing again, a child crying because his parents are upset and he doesn’t know what else to do, and even Sniper was looking rather green and muttering to himself. Spy, though, just lit another cigarette and took another step back, letting the manic pack close around the screen and block his view. It would give him a moment to think, and he desperately needed to think. Not because she was wrong—they were clearly unstable at the moment. Yes, he included himself in that. Spy dealt with fear as a serpent dealt with his hunt: he focused, laser-like, on an objective and struck again and again at it until it yielded. It gave him the ability not to lose his mind in situations like this, but it did not take away the terror. He felt it as they did, he just knew how to use it, make it a weapon as honed as his knife. The confusion, the feeling of being unable to construct a timeline of events leading up to this moment? That, he was less able to cope with. Perhaps the less introspective of his companions hadn’t noticed , but Spy felt a most peculiar sense of . . .both clarity in the moments he lived now, and a haze over all the events he had lived before waking up tonight. And then the intrusive thoughts, the obsession over the briefcase.

That’s not why Spy needed a moment away from the screen to contemplate their situation. What bothered him? Not that Ms. Pauling was incorrect, oh no. She had it on the nose, on the money, bullseye. That didn’t concern him as of yet. What concerned Spy, concerned him very much, was that Ms. Pauling? Was *lying*.

 

****

 

Scout had never felt pain like he did when that bullet blew his ear into pieces. It was worse than burning alive. He howled and fell, rolling, hand pressed to the wound and hot blood staining his hand wraps. The stranger was just a gray blur with fast aim. He shot again, hitting Scout’s shin, but the forward momentum of Scout’s roll carried the boy into the man and they both crashed against the control panels.

Shot, stabbed, burned, drowned, crushed, sawed, strangled, and nothing felt like this. His head and his leg were weights dragging his consciousness down into the unknowable black, but underneath him was a writhing mass of enemy limbs and Scout knew that he had to get that fucking gun. If the bastard killed him, he’d have a chance to finish whatever it was he was doing to the Machine. So Scout kneed with his good leg, hoping to hit something vital, and swung with his left arm. Good instincts— he still had his bat. It hit the prick in the shoulder, and while he didn’t drop the pistol, the man-bot or whatever he was snarled and his limb went limp. That useless arm had been pushing Scout off of him; they tumbled to the floor, wrestling. Scout couldn’t fucking *breathe*. The pain, jesus, it was every nerve, his whole body from toe tip to the roots of his hair, what was in those bullets? The stranger cracked his skull against Scout’s forehead, and that was all she wrote. His head fractured, exploded, a canyon running between his liquefying frontal lobes; Scout rolled off the man and the crack splitting him in two ran from his skull down his spinal column, into his throat, into his stomach. It seized, he retched, all things reached a crescendo.

_His ma’s hands on his face, wiping it clean. Shh, shh, it’ll pass. So many white lights. Figures moving, silhouettes. He wasn’t afraid. This was safe. This touch was safe. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her presence, her fingers on his brow. This one survived, good, maybe this batch isn’t useless._

What?

The white lights grew dimmer, blackness poured in from all sides, a flood drowning him. His ma’s hands fading to nothing, and then from nothing, like turning the power back on, his thoughts appeared, layer by layer. First: oh, hey, I’m Scout. Still alive. Then: oh, Jesus mother of Christ mercy FUCK that hurts. Then: My face is wet. Then: That smells like puke. Then: There is a pistol pressing against my temple.

Scout returned to consciousness sputtering, vomit still in his esophagus. The stranger was a gargoyle above him, one knee in the small of his back, one pinning Scout’s free arm, his other trapped underneath his body. He could see the gray and smeary black shape from the corner of the eye not squeezed shut against blood and bile; the gun barrel was a hard point of reference against Scout’s sweaty scalp. He was forced to keep his face in his own filth, cause there wasn’t any strength left in him, every muscle felt pushed to the limit and beyond, like he’d run until his ligaments had snapped. They weren’t numb, but they did feel cold. Scout’s destroyed ear was pressed against the metal floor, and to shift meant pushing back against the gun barrel. He was trapped, pinned and ready for slaughter.

“Just freakin’ get it over with,” Scout burbled. He said it to be brave, but the minute the words were out of his mouth he regretted it because he knew that man couldn’t hear over the whir of the Machine and mostly because he didn’t mean it, not at all.

The pressure on his spine intensified.

“I could kill you right now, and there would nothing you could do about it.” The prick was laughing at him. He had an accent but it was weird, not recognizable with Scout’s limited experience. He dipped so that his face was about of foot away from Scout’s own. “This was easier than I imagined.”

“Fuck you,” Scout snarled. The stranger was breathing hard, hard enough that Scout could feel it on his wet skin. He was either hurt, scared, or really excited. Must have been shouting for Scout to hear him.

“You dislocated my shoulder.” The man said. He rapped his pistol against Scout’s skull, not hard enough to be considered a blow, just a smart tap that still felt like a blow from Heavy’s fists. “I owe you for that. If I wasn’t busy … work before pleasure, though. So the question: shoot you and let you respawn one last time, keep you with me as insurance and fun, or deliver you to my friends? We already have the Blu version, though. You’re rather extraneous. So option one or option two.”

Scout screamed. The man had grabbed his leg and pulled it back farther than it wanted to go, and was burrowing his fingers into the bullet hole in his shin. Scout was going to pass out again. No— NO. He couldn’t give in! This was like the time the Blu Medic caught him and spent the entire round testing out his new Ubersaw. Scout didn’t give him the satisfaction of begging for death, and he wasn’t going to give it to this asshole, even if this was worse, a thousand times worse. (What did he mean by go through respawn one last time?) Don’t beg. Don’t beg, don’t begdon’tbegdon’t

“You …”

The man leaned in to hear him better, though not *too *close. “Hmm?”

“You smell French.” Scout pushed with all his might, bucking against the weight on his back. His enemy was surprised; he lost his balance, Scout made it to a push up position— and then the man shot him again, this time in the stomach.

He screamed. He screamed like a little girl, and then only thing worse than the pain was the shame.

And then Scout didn’t feel anything at all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: A Confrontation! One mysterious man becomes two.


	4. Bear Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the longest hiatus, I am back and updating again, hopefully with monthly regularity. Thank you to any who haven't given up.

“What in Uncle Sam’s eagle nursery are you ladies crying about!” Soldier dropped a pile of guns at his feet and waved a grenade. “Don’t you sorry sons of modest women know we are under siege? Making enough of a racket Jerry will be down our necks faster than you can say Nazi Spit! No offense Doc.” Behind him, Engineer also carried plenty of weapons. He was fully dressed including hat and goggles. That was good. Being without pants is not an intimidating look for a warrior. They held a collection of weapons for every team member, even objects like Engineer's toolbox. Smart men. Though Heavy would never go anywhere without Sasha, he left behind his shotgun and his boxing gloves. Warmth filled him to see the latter in among the arsenal. 

“That’s Soldier I hear. Where’s Engineer? Where’s Scout?” 

Soldier jumped to attention and saluted the air. “Ms. Pauling! You are invisible! Are you a ghost? My deepest condolences. Point us in the direction of the fiends who did this to you, and we will tear them limb from necromantic limb!”

“I didn’t know he even knew that word.”

“Do not disrespect Ms. Ghost Pauling, Maggot!”

“I’m not a ghost, Soldier.” Ms. Pauling sounded tired. Engineer pushed past Doctor and Demoman.

“Lord Almighty, is that—“

“The intelligence, yes, it is, it—Soldier I know you are going to start yelling, just wait—“

Dissolution into chaos. Doctor waved his hands under Heavy’s nose—go, separate them, calm them down!—but Heavy, for once, did not listen to his Doctor. He stepped back. In war everything was active on the battlefield, ever changing, his team adjusting every moment to new danger and reacting quickly, sometimes not so smartly. It was never chaos, however. They knew what to do. They had a goal: go in. Kill. Die. Go back. On bad days, they only paid attention to that goal individually, divided from their comrades. I kill, I die, I push cart. Not we. Not a team, and that was when they were guaranteed to lose to Blu baby cowards.

Fuzzy memories of drills where Heavy, Sasha clumsy in his hands, fought alongside companions he could no longer envision. The worked to conquer a dummy fort, or be punished for failing. In this misty recollection, their trial was undone by bombs; mock or not, through the dream-veil of memories he didn't care for, he could not see. Great sprays of dirt and terror obscured friendly bodies, they scattered. That team failed. Over and over, until one of them called out in something other than fear: this is what we must do. A leader. Every group needed the one to push from behind, say go. Soldier fulfilled this, usually, with his horn and his whip. His helmet the drum of war. 

Soldier was pointing at Spy, screaming about foreign incursions and wickedness. The seduction of the righteous.

“Enough.” Heavy used his bear voice. It didn’t need to be loud to be heard, like the growl from the back of a cave. Everyone shut up. Heavy hefted Sasha to the top of the table, which groaned and bowed under her belly. “We are done talking. Ms. Pauling, she says we need antidote to fight. Fine. We will get antidote. Pyro, get up. Get dressed. Everyone prepare.”

Beautifully timed, the beep-beep woosh of Respawn activating punctuated his sentence. 

Doctor ran to the room first. Stupid, going without protection, but Spy's warning haunted them all: Respawn was tampered with. Doctor threw open the doors and boom, he tumbled back. Sasha was coming to life before Heavy saw the red shirt and yellow headset. It was good his darling took so long to warm up.

“Yo, there's a guy down there!” 

“Schnell, dunmkoff, * I'm* down here!” Doctor grabbed Scout's ankle. “Vat do you mean, a guy? Vat guy?”

“I dunno man, but he's down there near a a really, a huge ass big machine. I dunno what it is, ain't never seen it before in my life. Man, you realize this whole base is sitting on top of some secret tunnels or something? I was doing some recon, you know, looking out for the rest of you chuckleheads while you was jawin', and guess who I saw? The rat-fink Blu Spy, that's who. And I totally had him, till suddenly, wham, this other dude pops up. And get this, he's some kind of freak, man-- he was glowing. Real weird looking, real Star-Trek shit. He, uh-- he shot me.”He talked too quick for Heavy, who only caught about half the words. Wah wah wah Blu Spy wah wah wah shot me. He understood enough. All those words came out so quick, Doctor couldn't get on his feet before Scout tried to push past Heavy. “Move it, wide load! We gotta get down there before he finishes doin' whatever he's doin'!”

“Did you say Blu Spy?” Doctor's glasses were knocked askew, but he did not fix them, caught in Scout's wake. As he passed, Heavy grabbed him, spun him round, fixed the glasses and spun him back. “Thank you, bitte. Did you say Blu Spy, Scout? Ach, answer me!”

The rest of the team crowed and crowded the hall, shouting questions at Scout. For once he didn't slow down to revel in the extra attention. “I'm freakin' telling you guys, we gotta move! Where's my gun? Where's my bat? What the hell? What the HELL? Is that the intelligence? Oh whoa, oh-- oh hey Ms. Pauling, how you doin'?”

“Scout, are you alright? What happened?”

“Yo, I'm alright, I'm better than alright, I'm great, why, you worried?” He leaned in front of the screen, propped on one elbow.

“Scout.”

“Spy, you bleedin' liar, you told us respawn had been mucked with!”

“Mmph!”

“Sorry there, Pyro, didn't see you--”

“Engagement with the enemy? I want a full report, maggot!”

“Scout, please slow down--”

“I had to increase your urgency somehow. If you put your hands on me again, you filthy Bushman, I'll--”

“SHUT UP.” Sometimes better to let skip bear voice, and go for mountain voice instead. “Scout. Tell us. Quickly.”

“That's what I've been *trying to do, jeez!” He rolled his eyes. “Okay. Like I said. There was this *guy* and the Blue Spy. The Blue Spy first, though. Chased him down, bout ready to bat his head in, and suddenly I'm in this big room-- like fuck-off big, man, big as Nucleus. Come to think of it, kinds looks like that, too, cause there's this huge ass machine in there, and some guy in like, a supernerd jumpsuit, he's messing with it, and then—”

“Oh no.”

Heavy stood closest to the Intelligence. He heard Ms. Pauling, but no one else seemed to. Her hands shielded her mouth and her eyes bulged, like a little mouse caught in a trap and snapped in half. “Why nyet?”

“Uh, I didn't say no. Hey, are you even listening?” Scout puffed up his bony baby chest. “Hey, I just died for this, okay? And let me tell you guys, it fucking hurt. For real--”

“No. Be quiet now. Ms Pauling, why nyet?”

“That's . . .” she swallowed, delicate neck tense. “That's a very large problem. A singular man was down there? Only one?” 

Scout squirmed. “Yeah, one guy. Hey, Ms Pauling, no offense or nothing, but are you okay? You don't look so good, for you at least, cause you *always* look good--.”

She waved his question away, biting her knuckle. “ . . can’t be helped. Continue with the plan as it was set and evacuate. Follow the blueprints.”

“No. I say nyet.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

Heavy removed Scout from his place in front of the screen. “I am very serious. Nyet. You say this is problem. We will fix problem, and then we will get antidote.” He sniffed. “We do not run away like cowards when we have chance. Is one man.”

“Yeah, and I already gave him a good ass-kicking.” A one-two punch aimed at Heavy’s flank emphasized the point. “Wait, whatta ya mean antidote?”

“They blew up me truck.” Sniper added.

“And made Pyro even more whackadoodle than normal, poor lad.”

“They *poisoned* us.” 

Baba Yaga could not have more terrifying presence than Ms. Pauling projected through that itty bitty screen. She was no bigger than a wasp, than Heavy’s thumb, but it cowed him. Never underestimate the power of women. Their rage matched winter; but Heavy knew winter, and not weather nor women would down him. Their staring contest ended with Ms. Pauling shuddering. “I can’t stop you.”

“We will survive. Spy lied, Respawn is still working. Do not be so worried.”

She grimaced. “For now. Be quick, Heavy. Be quick, be brutal, and then come back. Pauling out.”

***

She turned off the screen and immediately whimpered. Her leg throbbed. In her efforts to shift to a more comfortable position, her foot bumped the Administrator. You have her brains in your hair. Pauling instinctually pulled herself away from the back of the chair, skin crawling. 

“What do I do,” she whispered. Her glasses were smeared; she took them off to clean and couldn't find an unbloody part of her skirt to do the job. That was it. That was all she could take. Pauling dropped her glasses into her lap and barked a noise half laughter, half sob. “What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?” 

This was insane. This wasn't supposed to be real. She wasn't supposed to get shot, not in real life. She wasn't supposed to hide by the Administrator’s order, who knew that these men were coming for them. She wasn't supposed to pry the grate off the airduct and wiggle into a space too small to crawl through, barely large enough to wedge inside, and have it sealed by Helen right before the door burst open. Helen stayed so calm, even as Pauling quaked in her hiding spot. The only questions they asked her were these: Where were the teams stationed, where was the dormitory (they knew its nickname, how, how?) and where was her assistant.

She answered none, and then they shot her; and they sprayed the cabinets and counters of the room just for good measure. They didn't see the duct, but the walls weren't that thick, and a stray bullet punctured the wall and Pauling's leg, and she'd bit into her forearm to keep from screaming.

Then they were gone, and she'd kicked her way out, and done her best to alert everyone, and it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough.

This wasn't supposed to be real. She was all alone and she wasn't the bad-ass, body disposing, desensitized woman she was supposed to be. There was no one to perform for. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

“Red Team is still alive,” she choked out. “Red Team is still alive and they need you. Help them. How? I don't know. Think. Please think, think, think Pauling.” She'd been at this stupid job so long, she even called herself Pauling. God, that was sad. Would there be anyone left, in any other part of the facilities? She'd checked the surveillance-- none in the Storyline centers, they were completely gone, bombed utterly. She needed to do something. Her lies weren't going to hold out for much longer. Respawn was still running for the standard maps, but that wouldn't last long, and when that went down, Red Team? Incapacitated. 

She flipped through the surveillance cameras. None of the attackers, but their plenty of their damage. These people didn't care a whit about being caught. What was Mann Co. going to do, call the police? 

Mann Co. 

Of fucking course. 

They hadn't bothered to shoot up the communications console, but Pauling wasn't about to risk it. Instead, she dropped to her knees beside Helen's cooled body. “Sorry.” She whispered, and then tried to think of her boss as nothing more than another gibbed torso. No difference between this and the gore you see daily, she told herself, and pushed Helen over. The head lolled, rigor mortis not yet set in, sightless eyes pointing at the ceiling-- or one did. The other dangled, pushed out of the socket by the bullet to her face. Pauling didn’t stare and unbuttoned the dead woman's jacket.“Come on, come on.” 

Her fingers outlined a rectangular bulge hidden in the silky lining of the jacket. Pauling hissed in satisfaction and hunted for the seam. The pocket was closed with one dainty button, and she didn't have the wherewithal to fumble that. She simply ripped it off and pulled the phone out.

It was a smaller version of the monstrous thing she lugged around, if similarly styled. Most people had no idea how to use it, but familiarity with this technology was part of Pauling's training from the outset. She punched in the numbers. “Please be alive.” She whispered. “Please.”

It buzzed into dead air. Pauling let it ring 10, 15, 20 times, then hung up, and against all rationality, called back again. At any moment, they could come back to finish her off. If she didn't get someone to pick up this damn phone she was going to bleed out of be caught or lose her mind. Maybe all three, maybe not in that order.

The phone clicked. Pauling opened her mouth to thank, to grovel to the answerer and choked on it at the last moment. What if it wasn't-- what if they were there? What if she was talking to one of them and, no, they would know she was alive, oh god this was so stupid--

“Helen?” A male voice whispered. 

Pauling's entire body shivered as she untensed. “Oh thank God. Thank god. Bidwell. You're alive.”

The man on the other end paused. “ . . . Ms. Pauling?” 

“Do you have any idea what's going on?” She asked, scrambling into the chair. She began flipping through the footage again, hunting Mann Co.'s cameras.

“Um,” Bidwell paused. Pauling heard a crackling in the background, a sound present throughout the whole call but only now registered. “I have some idea, yes.”

Most of Mann Co.'s cameras were dead, but there was one that monitored the building from afar. Pauling's mouth dropped open. “Oh my god.” The whole building was an inferno, a bonfire that lit up the screen so brightly she could register nothing but a white blur where the facility used to stand. “You're not trapped in there, please tell me you aren't--”

“Oh hell no. I took the tunnels the moment I could tell something was going down. I set up Saxton to distract them.”

“where--” She searched the screens in front of her. 'Where are you?”

“En route to Grey Mann's. It’s our most remote facility, figured they wouldn’t spread themselves that thin.”

“Bidwell, I'm trapped. Helen's dead. So are most of the mercs.” She tried so hard to sound like this wasn't her unravelling. “I'm shot and bleeding out.”

“Most?” 

“What?”

“Most of them are dead?”

She nodded, remembered he couldn't see her, cursed to herself. “Most. Red Team at Barnblitz, I managed to warn them-- Bidwell, they took down the central controls. They're jamming the signals. If the mercs make it out . . .”

“Ah.” Bidwell clucked. “I was planning on running like hell, you know. I'm not coming back for you.”

Anger calloused over her fear. “I know that. That's not what I'm asking. If you run without helping me solve this problem I will tell these pricks everything I know about you before they kill me, I swear to all the gods, and I will watch them kill you from whatever hell I'm trapped in. Right now Red Team is trying to stop them from blowing up the respawn engine. If that goes down, there's no hope. You know that.”

Bidwell cursed. “Bloody-- what do you want me to do? I might be able to work remotely from the Grey location, if I can find a set up.”

Ms. Pauling clenched her fist. “I want you to be ready for reprogramming.”

****

“It’s up ahead,” Scout stopped. He was right: just beneath their noses, a whole network of unexplored corridors existed in dim silence, all of them tilting downwards. It was as simple as opening a door none of them had ever noticed. At the back of their group, Spy referenced the blueprints, smoking silently. No one wanted to ask the obvious question: why hadn't they bothered to check what was behind that nondescript wooden door?

“Let’s go,” Heavy said. He started walking, slower than before, and one by one the rest of the group lifted their leaden feet and followed. Scout fell behind, next to Medic. Golden opportunity. 

“Are you feeling well, herr Scout?” The boy was wan, sweat prickling at his downy hairline. He scowled.

“Don’t feel so great, doc.”

“The gas, probably. Virus. Did it just get worse?”

“What’s it frickin’ look like?” Scout gestured to the team. Each of them were green around the gills, though handling it with differing ability. Soldier seemed most unfazed, and again, Sniper the worst—he hung back an alarming distance and Medic swore he could smell the rancid fear-sweat that slicked his hangdog face.

“Did you notice this before?”

Scout shook his head. “Nah, man. Too busy chasing the rat.” That was an interesting data point. It couldn’t have been Scout’s adrenaline that produced a temporary antidote, because that was very likely the primary component of their illness. “Though I had a hell of a headache before.”

“Headache?” Medic leered and leaned in close enough that Scout had to list away to preserve his personal space. 

“Uh . . . yeah. Just real—“ Scout frowned, as if plowing the field of his memory had unearthed a rock. “Real confused.”

Nausea punctured Medic's good mood. His stomach rolled, pitching like a ship on rough seas, and the hall seemed to pitch with it. He steadied himself against the wall, chuckled. His teeth wanted to chatter. “Oh ja, there it is.”

Scout warned them about the machine, how loud it was. The man wouldn't hear their approach. A good ten minutes had already passed since Scout came through respawn, and he might very well have fled and left behind only some nasty surprises. Still, a chorus of hushing went down the line as the hall opened, and . . .

. . . mein gott.

This, Medic thought, is what a Machine God would look like. Herr Engineer must be on his knees by now. It was so tall, the upper echelons of the thing faded away into an expanse of catwalks and jeweled lights. They were not that far underground; some building must contain the top of this beast, though Medic couldn't think of any-- perhaps the silo-- but a blurry image of that enormous white cone barely flit across his mind when it blurred and his stomach seized. His body reacted as if he had eaten a live mouse (he knew, he'd tried that once. A couple times). He heaved against the wall, and brought up nothing but a thin slime of bile. No dinner.

“Doc, doc!” Scout was shaking him, looking very green himself. He was right, it was hard to hear. It wasn't so much that the machine made a sound; whatever thrumming frequency it pumped out from its mechanical viscera devoured all lesser aural intrusions. 

No dinner, Medic thought. No carrots, steak, corn. There was no way he'd digested all of that yet. 

Such a disgust reaction upon sighting the great machine. The Intelligence, too. Pathological revulsion.

Scout shoved him. He smacked his forehead against the wall and nearly lost his glasses to the smear of his own sick. He turned around to scream at the little idiot but felt something singe the airs on his forelock. Blood sheeted into his eyes. “Just a graze!” He shouted, trying to wipe it away and scrambling for the medigun. Not that anyone could hear him. 

Then the pain came. Medic, or the rational part of himself, compared it to his custom “agony scale”. Normally a bullet graze like this would be a, eh, 2? In the heat of battle, certainly. This was an 8, at least. Not quite burning alive, but perhaps losing the skin on half your body to a flare. He must have screamed and staggered because he was on the floor. Fascinating. Agonizing, but fascinating. It still *felt* like a bullet graze—a little burn around the edge, sheared skin and maybe some muscle—but amplified. The air stung. It was a raw throb he had a hard time ignoring. Mein gott, it was like he was a child, had never dealt with bullet wounds before. 

Pyro grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Stop that!” He snapped. “You are giving me a headache on top of all else!” 

Pyro pointed. Heavy was doubled over, clutching his gut. Sasha . . . Sasha had been dropped. 

Medic scrambled for his medigun. He squeezed shut the blood-flooded eye just to keep away the distraction. Everyone else had taken cover. Scout lay on his right, bleeding profusely from the shoulder, clutching it and rolling. Engineer was dead. His head had a tiny black hole right under the left lens of his google, so small that at first Medic thought it a drop of blood. He couldn’t name a bullet with an entry point that tiny. 

Heavy, on the other hand, had a massive hole in his stomach through which Medic could see the gallbladder, near obliterated, the liver seeping black blood, and a spilling tangle of small intestine. The damaged organs were shredded, as if Heavy had taken Scout’s scattergun at close range, but Medic could see no trace of metal fragments in the wound. He stuffed Heavy’s intestines back into the cavity and his partner bucked and screamed. Heavy. Screamed. Not a roar of defeat, but a shrill and gurgling sound loud enough to overcome the machine. He was trying to push Medic *away*.

“Hold still, schweinhund!” Medic couldn’t pin Heavy’s arms if he tried, so he relented to using the medigun alone. Heavy’s gut inched closed. The paint-can-and-antiseptic smell of the fumes eased the throbbing in Medic’s head with as much amplitude as the pain; it had a numbing affect, something there was never cause to notice before now. When a bruise hurt like a broken bone, however . . .

Heavy was feeling it, too. His face relaxed; he slumped into himself. Thank you, Doctor, he mouthed—or said—and squeezed Medic’s arm with flinch-worthy force. He had never seen so much relief on his partner’s face. 

****

Precious numbness, cold anesthesia like snow rubbed along fevered skin. Heavy could think again. He pulled Medic down, nearly atop him, so the man would be behind cover. Doctor was bleeding above the eye, but it did not look too serious. Sasha laid on her side, just out of range of his grasp. To reach for her would mean exposing himself to another of those shots, and-- and he did-- he was afraid to risk it. He was a big, bald, fat baby, squalling and useless. 

Nyet, it was not for the time for that. His team was pinned. The intruder was hiding somewhere among the guts of the the engine. Heavy had seen him as they barreled into the room, just before he was shot. The man was lean, tall, graying at the temples, wearing a suit like Scout described. 

Heavy sat up and pushed his back against the pipe that covered him. Medic slid next to him, adjusting his glasses, wiping them free of blood. This way Heavy could see the length of the hallway behind. Two bodies were on the floor-- Engineer and Soldier. Pyro and Scout were the closest. Pyro had pulled the boy to safety, leaving a smear of blood; he, it, now rocked back and forth with hands covered his head. Scout was not moving. Perhaps he too was dead, or simply passed out. 

One man against all of them and they were cowering. Pathetic. This was not acceptable, they-- HE-- was not so weak. “Doctor,” He said, as close to the Medic's ear as he could get. “Give signal on my count.”

“Vat is it you plan to do?” Medic was pinching his own arm, wincing, and then doing it again. 

“We need to get in, we cannot without cover. I am going to be cover.”

Medic considered this, licked his lips and grinned. “I vill be right behind you.”

“All need to be. All that can.” Two dead, two incapacitated-- Pyro was curled around himself next to Scout's body-- only Demoman good for an offensive push. Heavy prayed this would do it. He couldn't allow himself to think on it anymore.

“Ready, Doctor?”

“Raus, raus!” 

Heavy rolled from cover and grabbed Sasha, hefting her and in one smooth movement setting the barrel spinning. She warmed in his grip, her heat a lover's hands on his belly and thighs. He roared into the machine noise and started forward, Sasha opening her mouth and spraying the base of the machine with her venom, riddling it with holes that sparked and black smoke, white steam. His back tingled where Doctor's beam rested between the shoulder blades, pushing him, Sasha's hunger pulling him; he rode between the two and screamed out his weakness.

An indirect hit to the left arm. Black worms engulfed him and he almost, almost dropped Sasha, but he wouldn't. He *wouldn't*. No pain could leash him. As long as he believed that, it must be so. His arm stitched itself, Medic pushing him with one hand, and he took another shot in the thigh, stumbling -- he couldn't help it, he fell to one knee, leaving those behind exposed-- he saw red flashing over head, ed gunpowder and chemicals unidentified as Demo's grenades went off and gave him enough cover he could pull himself up-- and then, against his skin, a crackle of electricity.

“I am fully charged!”

“NOW, Doctor!”

From his heart out, Uber took him in bloodthirsty hands. Heavy drove a path forward, the enemy’s attacks glancing off his shining skin. Sasha chewed up so much of the attacker's cover that Heavy could not see where he was, so he sprayed back and forth, washing the area in front of him in bullets. This little baby would not crawl away. Around him were other explosions-- grenades, rockets. Heavy pressed forward until his boots were crunching over shrapnel. 

When the Uber flickered away and his heart began to beat like a human heart should, he registered that Sasha clicked and whirred without bite. It didn't seem to matter. There were no more attacks against them. Heavy squinted into the steam, hunting any flicker of movement. Medic's beam slid off him. He risked a glance over his shoulder; Demo grimaced, ashen, while Medic healed the cavity that had been his throat. Soldier was back, Engineer not yet.

Shimmering into view, Spy raised his ambassador and pointed it past Heavy's shoulder, yelling wordlessly.

Heavy ducked too slow. The single clean shot, the same kind that felled Engineer, drew a neat little hole through his chest. It would have gone through his heart but for the flinch he managed. Momentum spun him around so that before he collapsed, he saw the man, their enemy, step out of the swirling white steam with left arm outstretched in front of him. Bullets floated a foot away from the man's body, a gunmetal curtain attached to nothing. A shield. The man had some sort of impenetrable, invisible shield around him, projected from his hand-- no, his wrist.

Heavy's vision smeared. The man raised his other hand, and he had in it a gun no larger than Heavy's pinkie. Behind their enemy, his shadow pulsated against the steam.

No, not a shadow. Another silhouette, so similar in shape, decloaked behind the man in a shimmer of blue and a bright glint of silver. The man's head exploded before he could pull the trigger, spattering brain matter and skull and bits of bloody skin along the inside of his invisible wall.

Blu Spy dropped his Ambassador at the same time as the body, and held up his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Engineer and Demo investigate the great machine, Spy meets Spy and they are both very uncomfortable.


End file.
